


Chell

by FeatherStorm



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: Bring your daughter to work day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:39:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeatherStorm/pseuds/FeatherStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prequel to Portal, from the view of a young Chell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chell

I’m only eight, but somehow I have two fathers and two mothers: Mr. Johnson doesn’t know he’s my father, though. He’s an older man, and his assistant, Caroline, looks like me, because she’s my mother. Long dark hair, olive skin, and big gray eyes. Right now, they’re at a meeting somewhere outside Aperture Science. It’s almost like I’ve taken their places, their daughter taking their places for a day.  
I giggle, because that’s silly. I couldn’t replace my father if I tried-- either of them. My father, the one who I live with, bounces his knee a bit and hushes me. There’s another lady at the front of the room presenting something about sales on Turrets-- whatever those are. The room is dark, and the projector shines brightly at the front of the room, casting a sickly off-white glow onto everyone’s faces. Dust dances in the beam of the projector, and I can hear it clicking when the slide changes.  
The speaker finishes, and everyone claps. The lights come on, and a man walks to the front of the room. He has slightly wild eyes, black hair combed back with little tufts sticking up here and there, and just a whisper of a beard growing on his face. I look at my dad- his beard isn’t there. He only lets it grow on the weekends, when he doesn’t have to work.  
“The children need to exit the room,” the man says in a slightly tremulous voice.   
“Why, Rattman?” someone calls out from the back of the room.  
“Because,” he says, his hands shaking, “They are starting The Project, and we need authorized personnel only to initiate startup.”  
A couple people nod. My dad kisses my head, and I slide off his knee and walk out of the room with the other children here for “Bring Your Daughter to Work Day.”  
All the girls here look different only from the neck up. We’re all uniform in our clothing. Everyone wears a loose white shirt with the Aperture Science logo embroidered on the right side of the chest, white leggings with a pocket on the right calf, and we’re all barefoot, which I guess makes us all look different on our feet as well. I wiggle my toes, which are adorned with bright green nails right now.  
The door closes behind us, and we all crowd to the window that looks into the room. little black stripes run through it, creating diamond shapes in the glass. I run my fingers over the glass, feeling a slight texture where the lines are. All of our parents are crowded around a computer in the corner. A cheer goes up, which is quickly hushed as everyone crowds closer to the screen.  
Suddenly a hissing noise, barely audible through the thick walls and glass, fills the room. Sickly green smoke, duller than my toenails, begins to stream into the room from hidden vents in the corners of the rooms.  
Panic ensues, and our parents are suddenly running, covering their mouths with their lab coats and shirts, coughing, and screaming. A couple run to the window and bang on it, screaming at us, the children, to help them and let them out. We back up and hug the wall, stupefied and uncomprehending, as they drop to the floor.  
My father staggers up to the glass and presses his hand to it. I run up and press my hand to his, our flesh separated by mere centimeters of Authentic Aperture Appendage-Proof Glass. He smiles before mechanical hands suddenly pin his arms to his sides. Purple eyes glow through the darkness, and another mechanical hand clips his temple. He slumps in their arms, and is dragged out of my sight through the green fog.  
The other girls are stunned and helpless. They have no idea what is going on, and flutter about like little songbirds, twittering in their high-pitched voices. I slide to the floor, trying to work out what is happening.   
Then the voice starts. Autotuned, yes, but behind it is a ring of humanity, something that they almost can’t program into a machine. Something familiar too, a chord struck by her voice that makes me recall something from my past, something I can’t quite remember, and won’t for years to come.  
“Neurotoxin at maximum volume for room,” the voice says. The room is so filled with the sickly green gas that it’s impossible to see anything in there. I can just barely make out humanoid shadows among the smoky gas stumbling around, falling over. Tears prick at my eyes, because now I recognize everything: the voice, why everyone is dying, and the word “neurotoxin”, which I just couldn’t quite recall the definition of.  
Neurotoxin: A poison that targets the nerves and brain, causing death upon extended inhalation. The definition is from a pamphlet that has sat on the coffee table in front of the television for weeks: “Neurotoxin: The Painful Killer”. And the voice: It’s the same voice that has played on my television every day in between programs. They’ve introduced her, gotten everyone all excited to welcome her, and now she’s here and alive.  
GLaDOS.  
Before I’m even aware of it, I’m running, because it all makes sense. My father is dead. The robot killed him and everyone else in that room. Tears stream down my cheeks as I sprint through the halls. Aperture Science employees are running everywhere, paying no heed to a crying child running wildly through their halls.  
I end up in a long hall lined with doors. All of them are locked, but have glass windows. Every single window is fogged with the green gas. One has handprints smudged on the glass, as though the person tried to claw their way out before succumbing to the neurotoxin. I choke back a sob and continue forward, so wrapped in my grief that I can’t understand why I’m not going back to the other children so that I can go back to my mother, who is so far away at this point.  
My mother, with her fair skin, blonde hair, and brown eyes, so different from me, makes my eyes leak tears again. It’s doubtful I’ll ever see her again, at this rate. I’m so lost that there’s no hope I’ll ever find my way out again, seeing as there’s no one here to direct me back.  
I turn right when the hall splits. There are more offices, though the doors are unlocked and papers are everywhere, some still floating through the air. As I keep walking, I stumble into a long hallway, lined in glass, though some of the windows are smashed. Ahead, light shines into a larger room, where a shadow hangs from the ceiling. I grit my teeth and keep going.  
Broken glass crunches under my feet, small shards grinding their way into my skin. A large shard pierces my foot, but I pick it out and keep walking, no doubt leaving bloody footprints behind. I finally reach the room and gasp.  
It’s huge, with a catwalk circling her giant body. She’s active, and sees me right away, turning toward me, the cores on her back blinking and shifting.  
“So,” she says, her voice so much louder, and less autotuned, like she’s speaking directly to me rather than through an intercom. “You found me. Congratulations. Was it worth it?”  
I tighten my fists and feel the shard of glass that I picked out of my foot. I throw it at her with a scream, hoping to hurt her in some way, to make her share my pain.  
It misses, and she continues. “Because despite your violent behavior, the only thing you’ve managed to break so far is my heart.”  
“No,” I shout, my voice sounding tiny and thin next to her rich, malevolent voice. “Your heart isn’t broken, because if it was,” my voice cracks, “You’d be in as much pain as I am.”  
I collapse and sob, ignoring her voice. Something picks me up roughly by the arms and carries me away to another room, where I am placed into a small, pod-like bed. I curl onto my side as the top slides shut and warmth cradles me. The last thing I see is a purple mechanical eye, blinking and glancing over me. I try to scream, but I’m slammed into sleep, memories still playing out in my head for years to come.  
They don’t wake me much. I wake some time later. It feels like years, because I feel longer and lankier. I’m not restrained, and pick myself out of bed, but collapse as my ankles give out from under me. I pull myself up by the pod-like bed beside me, examining my reflection in the glass surface.   
I’m older, for sure. My eyes have edged more toward a green-gray color with hints of white, my skin is slightly paler from being contained for so long, but my hair has been cut since I fell asleep. It’s just past shoulder length and swept into a ponytail. Meanwhile, I’ve been forced into an orange jumpsuit that cuts off at ¾ length on my arms, and comes just to my knees on my legs. It’s a shock, because I didn’t think I’d been asleep for that long. I look almost like a teen, and as I turn back to the pod bed I can see a worn-out touch screen bearing the words “Chell, 15 years, 7 months, 23 days.” A large crack obscures my last name and other information.   
I hear a clanking noise behind me and turn to see the Purple Eyes, as my dreaming brain has named them, creeping up behind me. They’re hulking, metal creatures with holes in their limbs and slightly rusted plating. One opens the bed, and the other lays me into it. I fall back asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally for a class assignment, so there may be some points that seem redundant, obvious, or explanatory. You'll live.


End file.
